


Bloodsport

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction, dylric - Fandom
Genre: Bullying, Dylric, First Kiss, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-24 19:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Dylan's always been a target for bullies, but life gets miserable when things intensify. Worst of all, Eric is mixed up in everything.





	Bloodsport

Dylan bears the insults and rumors as he best can, but when he’s faced with the scribbled graffiti bearing his name, he vows revenge.

_dylan klebold sucks dick_

Dylan sees it for the first time written in permanent marker on the inside of a bathroom stall. He has no idea how long it’s been there or why. It’s cheap, to do this instead of harassing him in person. It’s easy.

Dylan is no stranger to bullying, though that fact stops neither the hurt nor the accompanying hatred. For years he’s been on the receiving end of insults about his looks, his clothing - nothing’s been off limits. Called everything from faggot to freak, he’s been tormented by jocks, popular girls, assholes from any social strata of Columbine High School, regardless of anything he says or does. The insult scrawled on the bathroom stall is nothing new, but in one way, seeing something like this in writing feels more permanent, and no less painful.

*

Dylan comes back first thing on Monday morning to scratch out the graffiti. It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would when he crosses his name out with a black Sharpie.

By Friday it’s back, a new iteration of the same phrase, a visual reminder of something Dylan doesn’t want to confront.

_klebold = cocksucker_

*

Word spreads faster than wildfire at Columbine, basis in fact or not. Dylan hears the murmurs and the whispers. He tries to ignore it all, the way he always pretends to do in public before letting everyone’s words eat away him while nobody is looking. Some things, however, are impossible to ignore.

The coup de grâce is a giant slur carved into Dylan’s locker. Scratched into the blue paint beneath the number 837 are three letters:  
_**F A G**_

Both Eric and Dylan are blowing off class. They stop in their tracks. Dylan burns with humiliation. Skipping class is supposed to be a way to get all of Columbine’s bullshit off of their minds - not whatever this is.

They’re quiet for a long time, lingering in the hallway longer than they should.

“Are you?” Unspoken, the word _gay_ hangs in the air after Eric’s question. It’s something that’s been left unsaid between them for some time now, and Dylan wants to hate him for asking the question.

“Why does it _fucking_ matter?” Dylan responds, aggravated. He fidgets, staring at his locker. “No. Maybe. _I don’t know._” Painfully honest, the words seem to echo in the empty hallway.

A moment later: “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to _do_ anything,” Dylan responds. Fighting back only seems to make things worse, despite the ways Dylan fantasizes about getting back at the culprits.

“You should watch your back,” Eric encourages, but it doesn’t make Dylan feel any better. From anyone else the words would be a threat.

*

Dylan storms up the stairs and slams his door, no stranger to locking himself in his bedroom. He heaves his backpack against the wall. 

“Fuck,” he complains out loud. He can’t get his mind off what he’d seen at school. To have that stuff etched on walls, on his locker, for everyone to see… _I feel awful,_ Dylan thinks. _What the fuck did I ever do to any of these people?_ Dylan has never been part of the in-crowd, but now he feels like an exile.

Dylan has no energy to do anything other than crawl into bed and hide his face. His life sucks. The harassment is bad enough, but the self-consciousness and paranoid rumination that tend to accompany it makes him sick. Not only is considering whether or not the anonymous bullies’ remarks are true bad enough, but Eric is probably wondering the exact same thing right now, to Dylan’s dismay. 

Dylan ignores his mother when she knocks at the bedroom door. His parents won’t understand and he doesn’t want to tell them about any of this, anyway. Eventually, she gives up and her footsteps disappear down the stairs.

Feeling weak, Dylan has less success ignoring the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He presses his face into a pillow and screams.

*

Sometimes, when the smoker’s pit is full of posers, the boys smoke underneath the bleachers by the football field instead.

Eric is the first one to finish his cigarette. He drops it to the ground and stubs it out with his toe and waits for Dylan, who’s still puffing away. 

Dylan is acutely aware of Eric’s observant eyes studying him smoking. Tall and thin, Dylan’s posture is hunched, less confident than Eric’s. Unruly blond hair is tucked behind his ears and underneath his black baseball cap, a regular part of his uniform. Eric looks down at the spot where his black jeans disappear into the top of his combat boots around his skinny ankles. 

Eric’s eyes follow the way the cigarette dangles from Dylan’s lips, and when Dylan finally tosses it away with long and slender fingers, Eric moves close to Dylan and kisses him, on the mouth, much to Dylan’s shock. 

The heat of the kiss melts the shame that lives inside him and Dylan leans into the kiss for just a second, before he blinks and backs away. His hands are clenched awkwardly into fists at his sides.

There’s a loud _clang_, and something - some_one_ \- scrambles on the gravel. Both Eric and Dylan look to the end of the bleachers and see a figure disappear. Who knows what they’ve seen? 

By the time Eric turns back to Dylan, Dylan starts to freak out - at being kissed by Eric, at being seen, all of it. He fists a hand in Eric’s collar and punches him in the face. Blood starts to drip out of his nose.

Eric tries again anyway. He leans up and kisses Dylan a second time, and whether he’s brave or crazy, Dylan doesn’t know.

Dylan’s hand closes around his throat.

“I’ll teach you not to fuck around with me,” Dylan threatens, gripping Eric’s throat.

“I’m not,” Eric chokes. His hands grab at Dylan’s as he fights for air. “I’m sick of you feeling bad about everything.”

Dylan struggles to believe any of it.

*

Dylan is the main target, at first, but after being witnessed kissing Eric under the bleachers, the hostility flies at them both. Dylan’s life gets worse when everything intensifies - the rumors, the bullying, the abuse. Teenagers are cruel and inventive, and the rumors start to eat at their friendship. They’ve always been this way, joined at the hip since middle school - eating lunch at the same table every day, working on class projects together, sharing rides and inside jokes and cigarettes. Despite a constant and close friendship, everything they do now seems to be fuel for the fire. 

“You guys twins or fags?” A jock laughs, a mean sound, pushing between Eric and Dylan roughly. Dylan may be tall and he cuts an imposing figure but it never stops the bullying, even minding his own business at his locker. “Out of the way, Stretch.”

Dylan always wears his backwards hat to school, and lately, Eric’s been doing the same thing. Both of them happen to be clad in their trenchcoats today. The pair of them look like mirror images, despite their height difference, and suddenly, this has made them targets.

“Look, it’s the trench-queer mafia,” a second jock sneers from somewhere behind them. He mimes a blowjob as he shoves Eric into the row of lockers.

Eric waits patiently as Dylan opens the combination lock and grabs his history notebook, but Dylan refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he takes off his hat and crams it into his locker.

“What the hell?” Eric asks, confused. Dylan always wears that damn hat.

“Be fucking normal,” Dylan snaps, pushing past him. The reminder is not entirely for Eric.

It’s a strange lesson in suffering; the world keeping you away from the one person you want to be around. Dylan values his friendship with Eric, but if merely being seen with him is fodder for gossip then he’ll push him away as many times as it takes.

*

The graffiti in the bathroom stall that formerly read: 

_klebold & harris suck  
DICK_

now reads:

_klebold & harris suck each others  
DICKZ_

*

Not hanging out with each other doesn’t actually do anything to quell the gossip, so naturally they gravitate toward one another despite Dylan’s original intentions. Dylan misses Eric if he lets himself admit it (which he mostly doesn’t).

*

On a warm day in April, Eric shows up to school sporting a black eye. He has minimal success hiding the bruise, wearing a KMFDM hat pulled down over his face and a pair of sunglasses, both of which the teacher makes him take off during class.

Dylan wonders about the bruise all throughout the lesson, staring at the back of Eric’s head and battling a ferocious urge to pummel whoever put their hands on his best friend.

At some point the teacher calls on Dylan for an answer (one he obviously doesn’t have). Eric turns around in his seat to catch Dylan’s response, but Dylan can only stare at his mottled bruise, distracted by the way the broken blood vessels have left the skin blotchy and purple. 

The teacher’s words are unintelligible. “…Dylan?” 

Dylan’s head snaps up and he looks at the teacher with wide eyes. “Uh —” 

“I’d appreciate it if you would join us in the world of the living for the rest of class, Mr. Klebold,” the teacher lectures him. 

The bell rings. Dylan pulls Eric aside as everyone disperses, leaving the two of them alone in the classroom.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“While you’ve been moping, I figured out who the fuck was spying on us underneath the bleachers and did something about it.”

“I have been fighting all _fucking_ year to get this to stop,” Dylan hisses. Never mind the fact that Eric is the one with a shiner. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I beat the shit out of them, V.”

“Did you hit yourself in the face, too?”

“Shut up,” Eric scowls. “They got off lucky. I should’ve shot those fuckers.”

“You’re only going to make things worse,” Dylan catastrophizes.

“Uh, in case you forgot,” Eric fumes, “you’re not the only one with their name on a bathroom stall,” he rants. “I did this for you.” Eric realizes he’s said too much and shuts up.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know you’re pissed, but don’t put that shit on me, man,” Eric warns him, stepping closer until they’re toe to toe in the empty classroom. There’s a magnetic force between Klebold and Harris, no matter how many arguments they have. “It’s over.”

Dylan swallows. He touches a fingertip to Eric’s bruise, tracing the curve of his cheekbone.

Ego bruised almost as much as his knuckles, Eric tries to reach for Dylan’s hand. Dylan pulls away like he’s been burned. Dylan always pulls away.

“You know, I didn’t forget what happened on Christmas,” Eric confronts him. “Even though that’s exactly what you want.” Dylan visibly tenses, his shoulders stiffening. He doesn’t bother to respond, he just turns to walk away. “That’s right. Get the fuck out of here. Do what you do best,” Eric spits, watching his dark figure disappear out the door.

*

_It’s a white Christmas in Littleton, quiet and idyllic. The snow-covered foothills of the Rocky Mountains loom beyond the sprawl of Denver. Christmas lights are strung up in the dead trees all over town, their colorful glow creating patterns that reflect on the snow. _

_At the end of a tedious day of familial holiday obligations, Eric welcomes Dylan into his house eagerly. “It’s been a long-ass day,” Eric complains. “Come inside.”_

_Dylan stomps down to the chilly basement and Eric comes bounding down the steps with a carton of eggnog a minute later. “Help yourself, Vodka.”_

_“Dangerous words.”_

_Eric turns on the television and the Playstation and tosses Dylan a controller before sprawling out on the couch, leaving room for Dylan at one end._

_Before long, they’re tipsy, on their third straight hour of video games. The eggnog makes them loose, and whether it’s the drink or Christmas, they’re both relatively comfortable for once, if not content._

_Eric presses his sock-covered feet against Dylan’s thigh, wriggling his toes._

_Dylan takes one hand off of the game controller to absent-mindedly run his fingers along Eric’s ankle, gripping one of Eric’s feet and continuing to play the video game, thinking nothing of it._

_Immersed in the game, Dylan squeezes a little too hard when Eric shoots him down. Eric flinches, and Dylan starts to tickle the bottom of Eric’s foot, keeping it up when he realizes it has an adverse effect on Eric’s in-game performance._

_Eric howls and tries to dig his feet between Dylan and the sofa cushion. “Damn, you didn’t get me anything for Christmas; least you could do is let me win.”_

_“Um… actually, I did get you something,” Dylan confesses awkwardly, letting go of Eric’s foot and reaching for his backpack._

_“I thought we weren’t gonna do gifts,” Eric reminds him, but he sits up with interest anyway._

_“Yeah, well…”_

_“It’s cool, man. I got you a present too.” Eric disappears to one of the many hiding spots in his room, rifling through boxes and returning with a small rectangular package. “Here,” Eric says unceremoniously, tossing the box to Dylan. Eric’s handiwork with wrapping paper is less skilled than Dylan’s; instead of careful, creased edges, the red paper is crumpled and worn at the corners._

_Eric tears into his present without waiting for Dylan, unwrapping a black folding knife. “Goddamn, V,” Eric whistles, impressed. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas.”_

_“Yeah, Merry Christmas, Reb,” Dylan responds, feeling a mix of warmth and confusion when he looks from the brand-new Zippo in his hands to Eric. Something about this feels right, although it also feels exactly like part of the reason Dylan’s been on the end of so much torment at school these days, for reasons he can’t pinpoint._

_Dylan decides it’s worth braving the snowstorm for a smoke, unsure how to proceed after their gift exchange. “I need a cigarette,” he says, a familiar clarion call._

_“It’s fuckin’ cold,” Eric scowls._

_Eric grabs a hoodie and pulls it over his head before following Dylan up the stairs, grumbling the whole way. Dylan intends to drag him outside despite his protests. No point in doing this alone. _

_“Shut up, Reb,” Dylan mutters._

_The falling snow is peaceful. Reed Street is empty and dark, aside from a streetlight at the end of the cul-de-sac. The glow illuminates the tiny snowflakes as they fall. They begin to blow onto the covered porch of the Harris house as the wind begins to pick up._

_The boys huddle by the wall to avoid the weather. Dylan lights a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. _

_Eric shuffles closer, subconsciously seeking heat. He doesn’t bother with his own cigarette, just waits for Dylan to pass him his menthol. He takes a puff, passing it back. “Thanks,” he mutters._

_Dylan pulls his trenchcoat a little tighter around his shoulders. _

_Eric picks up on the slight motion. “See? I told you. Fucking cold.”_

_Dylan bumps their shoulders together companionably, ignoring his complaints. Then he sinks down to the concrete, sitting and pulling his knees up in front of him. Eric doesn’t move so Dylan tugs at his pant leg until he slides down onto the ground beside him. _

_Dylan doesn’t say much as he smokes. He feels Eric shiver and tries to hurry._

_“Don’t rush on my account,” Eric grins, poking Dylan in the side. “You’ve got me in the snow now.”_

_“Think it’s gonna snow all night?”_

_“Maybe,” Eric shrugs. “You want to crash here?”_

_“Yeah.” Dylan’s house wasn’t more than five miles from Eric’s, but a few hours of snow might make the winding road to Dylan’s a little more difficult._

_“Good.” _

_Dylan passes him the cigarette again. He ignores the spark in his fingertips as their hands brush. _

_Eric curses at the cold and in a bold move, Dylan winds a skinny arm around Eric’s shoulders after getting rid of his cigarette. _

_“The fuck?” Eric startles, taken aback, but he doesn’t move away. _

_“Are you cold or not?” Dylan asks, looking ahead, stoic. That manages to shut Eric up._

_Somewhere inside the house, a light turns off, probably Eric’s parents going to sleep. Eric inches closer and they watch the snow fall in the dark until Dylan feels Eric start to shudder underneath his arm, the cold settling in._

_Dylan scrambles up first, offering his hand for Eric. Eric takes it and Dylan hoists him up, a little unevenly. Eric slips on the wet snow and almost falls into Dylan, who catches him with no hesitation._

_Eric licks his lips, leaning in a little until their chests are pressed together. Whether it’s the eggnog or the gay-ass magic of Christmas, the distance between them becomes smaller and smaller and their mouths meet, lips brushing softly, mouths fitting together like they were meant to. Eric’s lips are chapped but his mouth is warm and soft, opening under Dylan’s. _

_Eric’s hand comes up to cradle Dylan’s jaw. His cold palm feels like ice pressed against the flesh of Dylan’s cheek._

_Time seems to flutter to a halt even as the snow falls all around them; the silence becomes deafening. It takes Dylan by surprise, all of it, but mostly how much he likes the kiss. His breath catches in his throat. If he doesn’t stop kissing Eric now, he might never stop._

_Eric shivers again and it seems to jostle Dylan back to reality. Whatever heat there is in him freezes over and his blue eyes become icy. Freaked out by himself, by Eric, by how real this suddenly seems, he pushes Eric away._

_“This never happened,” Dylan threatens._

_Dylan backs away into the snow like a scared animal, and runs._

*

On the last day of school before summer, Dylan makes it all the way to seventh period without being teased in the hallway, without someone hurling insults behind his back. Dylan thinks he’s home free. 

Just before the bell rings, someone tugs on his hair. He spins around in his seat, only to be hit in the face with a balled-up wad of paper. 

The words on the paper are red and sticky, like blood. Dylan figures out from the smell that it’s wet nail polish. He tugs the edges of the paper apart to read the crude message.

_H.A.G.S. FAG_

With a sinking feeling, Dylan comes to the realization that it doesn’t matter what they say or do. Things will never change. Eric is wrong. It’s not over. It will _never_ be over, not unless they do something big, not unless they show all of Columbine High School who they really are.

Dylan crumples the paper back up and throws it in the garbage can on his way out of the classroom. He doesn’t bother to wait for the final bell, even as he hears Eric call his name.

Dylan is more than ready to get the fuck off campus, but he sticks around after the last bell rings to fulfill a promise to his video production teacher. After wheeling in all of the TV carts, he’s the last student to leave school grounds, so the building is totally vacant as he walks from the office to the senior parking lot. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway and his heart feels a little lighter knowing this is the last he’ll see of the place for a few months.

Dylan’s BMW is the only vehicle in the parking lot when he makes his way outside. A familiar figure is hunched over at the end of his car. Eric.

“Were you waiting for me?”

Eric sighs and motions to the empty parking lot. “No shit, Sherlock. Who else does it look like I’m waiting for? Jesus, I can’t believe you were in the fuckin’ gifted program.”

Dylan’s had it with insults for the semester (for a _lifetime_), and he’s not going to take shit from someone he doesn’t have to, so he pushes past Eric to the driver’s side of his car.

Eric snakes an arm out as Dylan tries to move past him, catching him by the front of his t-shirt. Eric pulls him in close. “Dylan,” Eric says, pleading. His name sounds right in Eric’s mouth even though it’s the name of a person he only feels like some of the time.

Eric uses the hand clenched in Dylan’s shirt to pull him closer and kiss him.

Scowling, Dylan pushes Eric away and hits him just like he did that day under the bleachers. The punch lands squarely on his mouth. Dylan’s onyx ring cuts Eric’s lip and the force of the punch makes Eric stagger back, yet he presses forward again. 

“I’m not crazy. I know you want this,” Eric insists, preparing for another blow, but it never comes. Something inside Dylan burns at his words because _it’s the truth_. Eric has a way of making him confront reality regardless of how much he tries to run.

Eric reaches for Dylan’s wrist - his fist is still clenched, ready to attack - and his fingers close around it. Eric slowly lowers Dylan’s hand out of the way as the other young man’s body sags against his own.

Instead of hitting Eric, Dylan kisses him, surging forward and seizing Eric’s mouth with his own. The force of Dylan’s motion slams Eric up against the BMW. This is everything Dylan has wanted for so long, despite his fear and hesitation. Why is he bothering lying to himself about something that half the school already seems to know?

“I’m not going to let you hate me,” Eric tells him, and he closes the distance between their mouths again. He kisses Dylan like he’s been waiting for it since that first time on Christmas, too. This time it’s less brutal, the fire in Dylan simmering and the kiss becoming as gentle as the first one they shared on that cold winter night. 

Dylan gives in to the feeling inside him that’s been building for so long, the one he’s been fighting and failing. No more holding back. No matter what anyone else may say, Eric’s arms feel safe, and Dylan is tired of running.

Dylan has Eric’s blood on his own mouth when he finally takes a breath, which makes Eric grin wickedly. He’s still clenching Eric’s arm hard enough to bruise; he doesn’t let go. Maybe he never will, now.

Eric digs his fingers into Dylan’s shirt and keeps him close. “We’ll get them back,” he assures under his breath, gripping Dylan tight, not letting him run this time. “We will make those fuckers pay for every single shitty thing they’ve done to us. I swear.”

Dylan begins to count the ways they’ll do exactly as Eric promises, a list of savage ideas he will no longer entertain alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Title lifted from "Bloodsport" by the Sneaker Pimps.


End file.
